


wearing thin

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John feels alone. Singular and abandoned, aching and dry in the desert of their flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wearing thin

Reality is wearing thin, right now. John knows it just as much as he knows the hiss of a bullet cutting through the air, like he knows the thrum of tense rain before a storm and the gratification of silence that follows - as much as he knows that he cannot, in fact, stand another minute of _this_.

 _This_ being three straight days of actual hell on earth; complete with erratic miniature explosions, a distinct smell of burning flesh ( _dead flesh_ , come to that) and the ever present chance of being injured/seriously maimed by random objects flying across the room every five seconds or so.

Three days of intense newspaper reading and tea drinking. Endurance: of the highest level.

Of course with the bad, comes the even _worse_. And it just so happens that John attracts _worse_ on some fundamental genetic level, it feeds on his caring nature and delicately stretched patience. So comes the wearing of reality, the silent hours where John can pretty much see the lines of Sherlock’s well-structured brain blurring, grouping and multiplying like hyperactive cells.

But he’s still, so _still_ ; cross legged on the sofa, elbows poised on knees and fingers trademark steepled - silent and yet louder than anything John’s ever heard. Right now, these _moments_ , they shake him. Because John knows that nicotine will not diffuse this, not even the promise of a case - not _even,_ perhaps, the liquid burn of Sherlock’s old poison crawling through his veins.

In these hours there’s nothing for John to do but wait; agonisingly sit across from Sherlock and watch the world and the heavens and the gargantuan of _space_ unfold in his unfocussed eyes. It’s boredom, in the simplest form. Boredom that’s morphed into something so spectacularly untameable that Sherlock, with all his perfectly formed nerve endings and neurons, cannot find a way out. He, too, must endure.

So John makes it a game - because that’s all there is to do, and if he _doesn’t_ then there’s a good chance he might be sucked into Sherlock’s depressingly futile orbit; be caught, floating and desperately trying to catch onto his coat lapels, a curl of hair, the familiar sound of toast popping, to bring himself back to the _now_.

John could quite easily get lost in Sherlock, so he keeps his fingers grounded tight around a cold cup of tea, busies himself with giving his imagination a bit of exercise.

He conjures Sherlock as a child - which is strange enough in the first place - roaming around a family home that John builds from the few period dramas he’s seen; the Holmes Mansion, golden and pristine, housing a family with problems that he dare not speculate about. Because there must be _something_ , right? It’s clear in the way Sherlock sneers at the mere mention of Mycroft, in the way that the air seems infinitely _less_ when they’re together.

John moves away from that line of thought just as quickly as it comes, doesn’t like to think of Sherlock’s past at all, really. It’s weird and stupidly ignorant, but John just can’t imagine the man pre- _him_. There’s so much he doesn’t know, and so much more that he doesn’t _want_ to know. Maybe a few years prior; shadowing a not-so-silver-haired Lestrade, pissing off everyone else in sight and barely managing to stay out of prison. Except that brings forth a jealousy, so raw and selfish, so incomplete - if he’d just found Sherlock sooner, _then_.

Eventually his eyes move away from the depths of Sherlock’s glazed eyes, though the effort and pure will to do so is immense. The man’s breaths are small and tight, but John can still see the ghost of them in his throat; the gentle tide of them rising from his lungs. He could probably count every heartbeat, if he so wanted; press the plane of his palm flush against his chest, reach into his rib cage and feel each note weave together, every vibration of stringy vein, the operas of Sherlock’s heart.

But it’s been hours, now. Sherlock must be dehydrated and sore; hasn’t moved so much as a muscle all day, not a flex of toes or a roll of his neck. John can’t figure out how he physically does it, how this side of Sherlock can be so static when he usually can’t sit still - it’s all inside, then, his mind like the mouth of a burgeoning volcano, ready to erupt.

John feels alone. Singular and abandoned, aching and dry in the desert of their flat.

Yeah, he’s probably about to push his luck once again - but sod it, because even if he puts aside the fact that Sherlock hasn’t eaten or drank or _moved_ for nearly 24 hours, there still remains a sense of dread and some awful black cloud hanging over the man that’s about to rain down on John too, and that’s just not fair, really.

With tingling legs, John pushes himself up and moves to stand in front of Sherlock; who doesn’t look at him, rather stares right through him, into nothingness and beyond. He sways around like some crazy dancer in Sherlock’s line of sight, even waves a couple of times - but nothing. There’s a landscape of emptiness in Sherlock’s pupils; a bleakness that reminds John of Dewer’s Hollow, of the unknown, of things bubbling beneath the surface that should remain buried.

“Sherlock, you need to - just please, _move_ at least.”

But Sherlock is somewhere else entirely, trapped in limbo. John reaches two fingers to that place where jaw meets neck, feels for a pulse just to make sure - and it’s there, rapid and strong, unforgiving. And it’s not like he’s confused or stupid, he understands that this isn’t depression. Sherlock has simply short-circuited, and John needs to fuse him back together, before the malfunction spreads.

“Why do you do this,” John doesn’t really ask, kneels before Sherlock and touches the tips of his fingers to the man’s elbows, digs his nails into the stretch of skin.

“You’re so brilliant, come back”

Maybe he’s pleading, somewhere inside, but his words are as flat as Sherlock’s gaze, echo pathetically in the silence and John’s pretty sure he’s talking to himself.

So he gives up on words; instead, John feathers his fingertips from elbow to wrist, can feel each hair on Sherlock’s arm respond to the attention even though he himself will not. Searching those eyes for signs of life, he circles Sherlock’s delicate wrists, smoothes the flesh of his thumb across each pronounced bone, recites their names from memory.

“Come on, Sherlock, _come on_ ” - Whispers, prays.

Nothing seems implausible, at the moment. John bends his neck and touches their foreheads together, feels the sweat on his own skin trace into the grooves of Sherlock’s. Their breaths mingle and that’s good, an improvement; maybe those small pockets of carbon dioxide they share will amalgamate, form something better, and then John can finally understand, finally be in the same place and be able to rescue Sherlock from the mist.

There’s  the smallest of movement - Sherlock’s eyes flick up to meet John’s and at last, _something_ , a tiny sliver of hope. It’s as if the man is fighting his own head, trying to get back from astral darkness and into the light catching John’s eyelashes, the warm concern on his brow.

John can hear him trying, senses the tug of it, so he kisses him. Determined, but _barely_ there, and not at all like he should. John kisses him because it’s needed, it’s the only thing he can think of - and because at this _precise_ second, he really fucking wants to.

Sherlock’s mouth is pliant and useless, and John uses this to his advantage; speaks things with the draw of his tongue along the crease of Sherlock’s lips, confesses with his teeth to philtrum. He does not close his eyes for fear of losing what little ground he has made, of reeling in the anchor he’s thrown out so deep. John alternates between sharing the oxygen between them and wetting Sherlock’s mouth with his own; _taste, take what you need._

The ghost remains stone and not-there for minutes, and John thinks tragically about giving up, then -

“John,” Sherlock cracks, forces from his throat, tunes his voice like an old broken radio. “Yes - _Yes_ , good”

And everything _is_ good; Sherlock opens his mouth a fraction more, allows John to take and give and wonder what else there is to find. Breakthrough movement, as Sherlock removes fingers from his chin, fists and flexes his digits until the feeling comes back, and instead roots them to John’s neck, grips so tight that it hurts, a little.

John lets his own hands fall to Sherlock’s knees, is no longer kissing but _being_ kissed - and he’s glad of it, needs the control taken from him because he would not stop, _cannot_ stop, ever, discovering Sherlock.

All good things come to an end, and John is not naïve enough to think otherwise. The worst is over and he is content enough with that, can handle being _just_ that, as Sherlock gathers himself; makes a torn noise that vibrates John’s soul, smothers it completely, and then Sherlock splits their mated atoms, pulls back the anchor of eye contact and wakes back into reality.

“Thank you” Sherlock gives him, low and sweet.

John grasps onto those insignificant words as the man rises, walks away in a sweep of cracking bones and tension fuelled steps. He allows himself a moment to close his eyes, melts into the static darkness behind his own lids, before pushing himself up. Standing in the centre of the living room, he listens as Sherlock pads to the bathroom and turns on the shower; pictures his own shadow leaving the man’s skin, the memory of his lips and tongue washing down the drain with the steady flow of water.

It takes all of his strength to move, then, to tip his tea down the sink and wash out his cup. John thinks about leaving, thinks about a life alone. Wonders how it is that _now_ , he feels emptier than ever - hollowed, thinned to the bones.

  


  



End file.
